MINHO'S FEET CAME to an abrupt stop when he saw Newt, Alby, Nick, and Clint closed the door to Frankie's room behind them.

"Food poisoning," one of the four explained, "Threw up in the Maze once, twice in the bathroom. Clint gave her some meds already. She kicked us out of the room so she can have some rest."

"Food poisoning?" Minho frowned.

"Probably something stale she ate this morning or yesterday."

"Oh, so she was already sick in the morning? And then decided to run?"

Newt exchanged knowing glances with Alby. "Yeah. But we made a deal with Ben—"

"The shuck with Ben!"

Minho could knock and pushed the door open slowly. He could ask nicely for her permission to enter, take her hand and speak soothing words while they talked.

But, no.

Minho, being Minho, slammed the door open against all advice and yelled at her, "Hey, you shucking slinthead!"

He faltered a bit when he saw her curled up in a fetal position under the cover, looking pale and feverish. A bowl of warm water sat on her nightstand with a dipped towel, but he didn't think she had any intention to put it on her forehead at all.

"Minho!" Alby hissed, grabbing his elbow.

The Asian boy flung his arm free, "Is this what you want? Be a shucking hero and die a heroic death alone? Because this is not shucking heroic at all!"

"Get out," Frankie croaked. Her throat was parched from retching thrice earlier.

"Shuck, no. Stop this childish act and say whatever you want to say to me!"

"No, I mean get out, Nick."

Everyone, even Minho, was stunned.

"It's kind of personal. I think Minho's about to cry," she said with a humorous tone.

Reluctantly, the other boys left Minho with Frankie alone (after Clint's fairly long warning about not straining herself). He leaned against a wooden beam with arms crossed, showing the bulging biceps he had received after all the Running and working out. His lips were pressed to a thin line and there were creases on his forehead.

"Don't have the decency to take a shower first, do you?" Frankie sat up. Minho noticed how her hands never left her abdomen and how she flinched involuntarily every once in awhile.

"Oh, so now we're talking?"

She raised her eyebrows, "Is that not what you want?"

"I told you I'm sorry," Minho straightened his back, "I'm sorry that I spilt our secret to Newt. I couldn't just sit around and pretend nothing's wrong when that shank was lying and dying up slowly on a shucking bed, and I needed a trigger. It was wrong. I'm sorry. But I don't get why you're shutting me out like this!"

"I—"

"For one shucking week!"

Minho's chest heaved up and down and for a few seconds his breaths were the only audible sound in the room.

"I'm scared..." Frankie started, "Everyone respect me only because they think I'm strong."

Her sentences were always short, but Minho could grasp the long paragraph laced behind it.

"Your strength's not fake. You are strong. And we all respect you because of a lot of things." Minho's tone lowered. He sat down on the floor by her bed. "Remember what I said that day?"

"Yeah," Frankie slipped lower into the cover and curled back to her original position.

(Minho abandoned his quest for extra blanket and sat next to her on the floor.

"You good?"

"Fine."

"I hate that word," he pointed out, "If you want to cry, cry. I'm crying internally for Newt, too. Let me in. I want to help. Everyone does. Good that?"

"I'm not crying," Frankie said defensively despite having puffy red eyes and tear-streaked face objecting her statement.

"Shut up." Minho circled his arm around her neck and pulled her head so she was leaning on his shoulder. The smell of fresh cut grass and the Glade's lily scented shampoo attacked her senses immediately.

"Min—"

"Sssh," he hissed and kept his grip on her temple firm so she couldn't lift her head off his shoulder no matter how hard she tried.

"Minho..." she faltered.

Minho realized that her struggle was ceasing and she was rolling her head so her unkempt hair covered her face. Then she cried. On his shoulder.)

"I'll say it again. Let me in. I want to help. Everyone does. Good that?"

"Good that."

"So are we okay?"

"We're okay."

He reached out to dip the towel into the warm water and put it on her forehead. Her temperature contrasted severely with the cool night air.

"This has to stop. Acting like you're so indestructible and you can do everything on your own. Nick and the other shanks let you do your way but I won't."

"Oh, so you're telling me what and what not to do now?" Frankie smirked, "I'd like to see you try."

"It's because I care, and it's tough love, Frank," Minho patted her arm twice, "You're benched."

"What?!" Frankie shot up on her bed.

"Tough love," Minho pushed her down to sleep,  fixed the wet towel, and finally left her room with a wink.

〰️

FRANKIE WOKE UP the next day with a start.

The sun was already high up in the sky, its rays piercing through the gaps between the wooden logs that made up Headstead's wall structures. The pillow and bed where she laid were drenched in sweat and her throat felt like sandpaper. It was probably the first time she woke up this late in the Glade.

She felt clammy, heavy and lightheaded. But the urge to throw up had ceased, so that was a good thing, right?

Her digital watch showed that it was a few minutes after ten o'clock.

Ten. Shuck.

She ran out of her room and began to make her way downstairs, but a glimpse of life from a room she just passed made her pause and she backed.

In one of the rooms was Gally. Frankie sighed, feeling grateful that he had looked a lot better than the first and second day after he got stung. The blue, green, and purple veins had diminished significantly. And even though he was still unconscious, he didn't scream or mumble gibberish klunk anymore.

Next to him was Clint, carefully feeding the Keeper of Builders some light food and water.

"Hey."

Clint was a stocky boy with crazy curly hair, lemon sized nose, and naturally sour look. But whenever he got engaged in a conversation, he always smile. Like right now.

"Mornin'. How was your sleep?"

"Fine," Frankie shifted on her feet, "How's Gally?"

"Any day now," Clint grinned, "How about you?"

"Fine."

"I'm your Med-jack. You really should tell me somethin' more than 'fine'."

"But I'm fine," Frankie displayed a little smile, "Really. Minho left, didn't he?"

"Of course. It's almost noon. Oh, and you are under strict order to not leave the Glade for three days until your upset stomach is calm enough."

"Three days...?" She gaped in disbelief. That shuckface.

"Yeah. You should go downstairs —everyone's waiting. Frypan made you a... blended stuff, he guessed you have no appetite right now. Supposed to be delicious and healthy. I dunno."